Of Nothing and Greatness
by Notes in Harmony
Summary: This will be a Harry/Hermione fiction all the way, with no pairings for either that last longer than couple of chapters. Hopefully eventually a full rewrite of the series. Much more intelligent and driven Harry than the books and less authority-loving and bossy Hermione. Will eventually have somewhat of super Harry, elemental powers and more. Features emotion driven introspection.
1. Chapter 1

Ch. 1

Fire. Death. Ashes. These are the sights that greeted Sirius Black when he arrived on the scene of a most despicable act of betrayal, the handiwork of the miserable rat Peter Pettigrew. Sirius knew, even in his darkest moment, he could not yet succumb to the revenge that was his deepest desire. James had left specific instructions with Sirius to make sure, in case Voldemort arrived and the still-new father could not, that Harry would get the trunk his father left him. Sirius wasn't sure why the trunk was so vital, only that he would do as James asked and paint the necessary runes on the infant. While runes were never the man's strongest subject at Hogwarts, he at least knew enough to figure from the elaborate construct that it would link Harry and the trunk and would never allow the object to appear around Muggles or anyone from the Ministry of Magic (how exactly it would distinguish people of the ministry was likely buried in the particularly arcane cluster of runes he couldn't decipher). It appeared that perhaps it would allow Harry to access the trunk at a certain date, but not before then. Black knew that this work, particularly the jumble of runes on the actual object itself, were beyond the ability of most to decipher and could only be the work of the brilliant Lilly Potter. Finally breaking from his musings, Black heard a familiar voice and knew that the approaching behemoth of a man would make sure Harry was safe, likely under the direct protection of the most powerful wizard on earth, Albus Dumbledore. With his final inhibition lowered, knowing Harry would be safe under Dumbledore's protection, far safer even than in his ancestral home at Grimauld Place, Sirius Black set out to exact his revenge on a certain worthless rodent.

The following day, after observing the Muggles that Albus called the Dursleys, Minerva McGonagall couldn't understand his insistence on leaving the vanquisher of Voldemort with these… People! The absolute worst sort of Muggles, likely filled with some preposterous notion that wizardry violated some 'normalcy' and that all magic users were freaks. She couldn't stand anyone, wizard or not, who discriminated based solely on some trait which was beyond their control: the pureblood bigots discriminating based simply on the number of wizards in a person's lineage, the Muggles who believed that the gift of wizardry made a person abnormal, or the people that viewed a person with tremendous intellect as pretentious and annoying. She herself had suffered from prejudices, the misconception that a woman surely couldn't hold a mastery of transfiguration, couldn't teach at the most prestigious academy of magic in England. The stern woman was determined that the young child to be brought here today would not suffer these insufferable people by himself, but always have someone to turn to, if for no other reason than in honor of her favorite students and the sacrifice they made to eradicate Voldemort once and for all. Even though she had stayed loyal to the headmaster through some of his eccentricities and schemes, she couldn't help but feel that this decision was grossly misjudged.

Later in the evening, when Albus arrived with the completely unnecessary flair of extinguishing the lights on the street (as though he couldn't have simply worn muggle clothing to blend in), she immediately began to question the sanity of his decision.

The woman spat out "Albus Dumbledore, in all of my years on this earth, I have never felt more ashamed to be complicit in something, if only by not stopping this and taking in the wee bairn myself! Never have I seen two people more obsessed with seeming normal than these, and from what Lily had told me all those years ago, her sister despises magic! In fact, I formally vow that if I find out that the lad is injured, physically or emotionally, because of your decision to leave Harry Potter with Vernon and Petunia Dursley, I will break from your leadership as leader of the light! So mote it be! The sole reason that I haven't yet taken him from you is in honor of our long friendship and the hope that it perhaps truly is for his good to be with his relatives. Right now, however, I cannot stand to be in your presence. Good day, Headmaster Dumbledore." She was as good as her word and brusquely stormed off, apparating away as she went. She left behind a man with fresh doubts that he made the right choice leaving the child with these Muggles. Quickly, however, he dispelled these doubts, assuring himself of the central truth that almost all humans were inherently good and that familial bonds were even closer than bonds of friendship, meaning the child would be perfectly safe with his relatives and behind the blood wards he had erected. Still though, the fact that one of his closest subordinates would so tempestuously swear a formal oath about the child's care gave him pause as to what exactly she had seen…

_Around 9 Years Later_

'Constant work, unending labor, painful beating. Can there anything else in my future?' thought a young resident of Number 4 Privet Drive as he crawled into his cramped cupboard under the stairs. Today was apparently his 10th birthday, July 31, 1990, a fact that he only knew because of the extra beatings his uncle had given him. His birthday present this year had been a loaf of molded bread and, of course, the extra beatings- 14 lashes on his malnourished body with his uncle's favorite belt. It was, to date, the third worst abuse he had ever suffered, rivaled only by the time he had somehow ended up on top of his school roof (around 30 lashes to the back and legs, he passed out at 21 but counted several more as he disinfected them with some of his aunt's bleach) and the time he had had accidentally crippled his Aunt Marge's dog. Harry shuddered at even the memory of that, his aunt beating him with her heavy bag on the head while his uncle started punching him in the back: kidney, spine, lung, a constant cycle of pain. He passed out again to his uncle's yells of 'Freak! How dare you use your freakish abilities! How dare you hurt your sweet aunt's little dog! I've had it! I'll beat the freakishness out of you!' The lad still just couldn't understand what he had done! He saw the dog charging at him and was so afraid he didn't think, just willed it away from him. He didn't mean to hurt anything!

The only solace that he had from his daily abuse was learning. Not school necessarily, since he had to fail any classes he shared with his cousin Dudley so that he wouldn't appear to be showing him up as his uncle had often accused him (with a few lashings to emphasize his meaning). In those classes where they were separate, however, he blossomed into a towering intellect, easily completing all of his coursework and reading ahead to at least a secondary school level, approaching collegiate level. No one wanted to talk to the 'freakish nerd', especially since doing so would incur the wrath of Dudley and his cronies, so Harry studied all day. Studied, perhaps, is too mild. He rapaciously devoured any books he could, even smuggling some back to the prison he called a home to read in his cupboard with a penlight he had smuggled in years ago. He particularly loved the classics, maths and science, particularly chemistry and physics. Reading the classics had an element of escapism for the boy, a chance to travel to new worlds out of the cupboard, where heroes fought over maidens fair and fathers cared for and protected their progeny. Reading each one was a bittersweet experience, however, since they constantly reminded Harry of what he could have had, had it not been for his irresponsible parents abandoning him to his aunt and uncle in an act of pure stupidity! How often had he raged, had he cursed their names for being irresponsible and dying in a car wreck, leaving him to wretched Dursleys!

Tonight, he was too tired and pained to even begin to contemplate reading, so cried himself off too a fitful slumber, filled with odd dreams of high-pitched laughter and sickly green keep light.

Exactly 188.293 kilometers away from the misery of the Dursley household, in Ipswich, England, a young girl named Hermione Jean Granger lay on her plush bed crying. Once again, the bullies of her school had picked on their most hated 'buck toothed hag'. The young girl was extremely intelligent, a mental colossus in her own right. As she would later find out, she had either the first or second highest IQ for her age group out of the entirety of England, two points above or below a certain Harry James Potter depending on the times checked, though this was not to be known for several more months. Understandably, she hated school but adored learning, since her school had become inextricably tied to the bullying she had faced nearly every day since she started school. Young Hermione longed for the simple days she could still remember, when she would lock herself in her room and indulge her mind for hours on end. At first simple picture books, she eventually moved to full chapter books and now read almost on a collegiate level in her personal interests of arts and history, with an incongruous interest in physics and biology.

The only salves to the wounds of the bullies' words were her books, her piano, and her demanding yet caring parents. And how she did love her piano; having taken piano lessons for 5 years, she would sit for hours pouring her emotions into the instrument, letting it absorb the confusion and anger she felt that nobody would befriend her. It was perhaps her greatest emotional outlet. The bright girl had tried to talk with her parents about her problem but, like herself, they were sometimes inexperienced and clumsy at expressing their emotions and understanding other's feelings. They were always willing to listen to her but couldn't seem to explain the troubles she faced, instead just offering to talk to her teachers or principal and get them to reprimand the bullies. At first it had seemed like the best option, of course teachers could always fix the problems! Oh how wrong the girl was.

After being told, her teacher had pulled her worst tormentors, Corena and Envidia, Spanish transfer students, aside and punished them with lunch detention for two weeks. Hermione, blithely believing this would rectify her troubles, had gone back the following day ready for a whole new experience. Indeed, it was new in that their retribution took the girls' conduct from mere bullying to torment. Where before they had merely teased her for having a rats nest of hair, they now took handfuls and tried to pull it out. Where before they had just called her ugly and buck toothed, they had now taken to garishly smearing makeup on her during their changing time for gym class, mockingly saying 'Well Ms. Beaver mouth, I suppose it's some improvement on the hideous thing you call a face'. When teachers weren't looking, they pulled her ears, knowing it caused her an intense pain no one could ever explain. These two weeks of personal hell culminated in the final day of detentions, where they tripped her as she was going into the restroom, kicking her till she cried while informing her in no uncertain terms that if she ever told anyone what she did, their payback would increase tenfold. Since then, she had never told anyone the full measure of her troubles, even her parents, to whom she only told some of her more minor trials when she simply couldn't hold them all in any longer.

That very day, she had been driven to tears when she had simply tried to help someone with an assignment but was met the now customary glare of hostility that spoke of her classmate's loathing of her perceived arrogance more concisely than her beloved books ever could.

As each lay sobbing into their bedding, soft quilt and tattered rag, they never could have foretold the fate that would unfurl itself over the next few months.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I forgot to do this for chapter one. I assume that it's common knowledge that no one on a fan fiction website owns the things they write about, or it wouldn't be Fanfiction! But, to ensure I'm exculpated for any legal questions, I will state that I in no way claim ownership nor have any rights to JK Rowling's Harry Potter series. However, if she decided to give it to me, I certainly wouldn't object!

A/N: Stating for the record that this story may be somewhat slow paced for people's tastes (assuming anyone reads this). The chapters will also tend to be longer than these first two, which I intend mostly as introductory exposition to let me start getting into the meat of my story. I do spend a somewhat disproportionate amount of time in the entire "Harry meets McGonagall scene", but it will become quite important. I intend for it to establish a different relationship between the two, as well as highlight Harry's lack of self-confidence and his phenomenal intelligence. I won't be using British-isms in the chapters, since I'm an American, but will attempt to incorporate some into the dialogue as our characters are of course Brits. If I make errors in this, some please simply inform me, I'm not at all acquainted with the nuances of the British dialect or culture. Also, I'm not going to drag out their pre-Hogwarts days for long, Harry and Hermione will meet each other soon and be at Hogwarts and Diagon Alley by the next chapter I expect (but not friends for a few chapters yet). My English teachers have always said I tend to be too wordy and descriptive, so that may not be to some people's taste. If anyone reading this thinks I am too wordy or notes any discrepancies in what I write, please tell me! Thanks and I hope someone enjoys.

{A note on formatting: I'm not sure how to demarcate different scenes in a word document that will allow them to successfully be uploaded in similar fashion to website. I attempted something that I noticed didn't work last chapter, which is why shifts may have seemed rather abrupt. This is my first ever fanfiction and I'm still attempting to get acclimated to the site}

Over the next several months, Harry's beatings became more severe and more frequent, likely because Vernon had started to drink. Thankfully for the boy, they were at least careful to ensure that the injuries were never debilitating, enough to 'suppress the freakishness' (at least, that was his uncle's excuse, whatever the freakishness was) but still leave him able to move and do his innumerable chores. He had long since stopped trying to avoid his punishment for whatever he had done, knowing it just made everything worse later. Harry never tried to tell his teachers or the school social workers about his problems, not after the one day when he had tried after Aunt Marge's beating…

_Flashback _

After being so severely beaten, Harry was desperate, so desperate for someone to help him and make his suffering stop! Once school was released for the day, he apprehensively went to his school counselor's office and timorously queried, "'Excuse me… Mr. Norman? Could I have a moment of your time? I'm sure you're busy, but I have a problem and I don't know who else to go to…"

To this, the genial old man responded, "Of course lad! What's your name and how I can I help you?"

Head down in embarrassment and apprehension, Harry quietly responded, "I'm Harry, Harry Potter… Well sir… It's… My problem is my family… My cousin Dudley Dursley and my uncle Vernon beat me… Never for any major wrongdoing, most of the time it just seems to be on whim… Is there any way you can you help me?"

When Harry mustered the nerve to look up after a few moments, instead of the look of shock or pity he had expected, a shocking red had overtaken the man, the look of affability replaced instantly by one of indignant outrage.

"The family of Petunia and Vernon Dursley have been friends of my family for decades! I was close friends with Vernon's parents and watched him grow up! Perhaps a bit hot-headed at times, but a good man all the same! Certainly he, nor any child of his could ever do such a thing! I refuse to entertain these absurd accusations! If he's ever hit you, which I doubt, I'm positive it was to your betterment; the Bible itself tells us 'spare the rod and spoil the child'. You and your lies get out of my office **now** and don't come back!"

Cowed by fear, the young Harry walked all the way home, endured his Uncle's verbal abuse for his tardiness, cooked and cleaned up dinner and cleansed his wounds again from the still recent beating before crying himself to sleep.

_End Flashback _

It was now mid-afternoon on Harry's eleventh birthday and he noticed two unusual things- his uncle hadn't given him his usual birthday lashings yet (though sometimes he saved them for the night) and his aunt looked nervous, almost guilty. He was out de-weeding the garden, keeping it to Aunt Petunia's exacting standard of perfection when he saw an owl, _Bubo virginianus_ if he remembered correctly from a secondary school level biology textbook he had read two years ago. Curiously, it had a piece of… Parchment? Vellum? embossed with some odd crest he'd never seen in his brief foray into the study of heraldry last year. Unless he was mistaken, he saw a badger, a snake, a bird of some sort, and a rampant lion. His innate curiosity now sufficiently piqued, he extended his hand slowly toward the letter, be sure not to make any sudden movements lest he scare the almost impatient avian away. To his continued surprise, it docilely extended its leg and waited for him to remove what young Potter could now successfully classify as a piece of parchment. This alone gave him another pause, as he thought to himself, 'What kind of people use parchment to write on and send things by trained owls?!' Without further ado, he unfurled the parchment to view a shocking, confusing, wonderful note that would mark the beginning of a new epoch in the life of Harry Potter. This earth-shattering note read:

Dear Mr. Harry Potter,

It is my pleasure, as Headmaster of this venerable institution, to notify you of your invitation to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is a boarding school and will require you to be away from home for nearly 10 months per year. Term begins September 1. Please promptly board the Hogwarts Express at 11:00 AM that day to arrive at school.

Note: Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall will be arriving at your house within 4 days of reading this letter to help your guardians adjust during this important time and to take you to gather the necessary equipment and books to bring with you for your first year

Sincerely yours,

Albus Dumbledore (Headmaster at Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Order of Merlin, First Class)

After reading the letter six times to make absolutely sure that he hadn't simply dreamt the wondrous news the letter contained, Harry was almost ready to faint in excitement. He couldn't fathom why he was being invited to this institution, or even if it was real. All he knew was that, if real, it would mean time away from the Dursley's house! Even if this Hogwarts place just wanted him to wash dishes or tend the grounds he would more than gladly do it, after all, it couldn't possibly be worse than the chores he was encumbered with at home and the essentially guaranteed lack of beating for 10 months practically made it Shangri-La! He now ached for this person, this Minerva McGonagall, a woman he had never heard of 15 minutes ago, to come and confirm idyll was real, that he hadn't had his hopes buoyed for nothing.

In the Granger's Ipswich, England home a young Hermione Granger was unknowingly thinking along lines much the same as a black-haired boy a few hours away. She, too, had received a letter from this Hogwarts institution and had immediately run to her parents, thrilled to have such an exclusive invitation. Hermione couldn't believe how fortuitous this opportunity was, a chance to separate herself from the stigma of undesirability she had gained at her primary school. She was free to be a new girl, not to be made fun of and ridiculed! While it was somewhat of shock to have it implied that she was a witch, something she had always dismissed as the stories of a younger youth, in retrospect it actually explained quite a bit. If she was endowed with some sort of magical capabilities, numerous small incidents suddenly made more sense. It explained one of the most formerly inexplicable incidents she could recall: she had been so desperate for Envidia to feel how freakish she felt when they smeared makeup on her to find the girl suddenly covered in garish clown makeup that could not be removed and had to eventually wear off.

Receiving the letter was like a specially ordered balm to her soul after pondering a certain event at the end of the previous school year yet again, one of the most physically mild but emotionally hurtful days she had ever experienced. Hermione had believed that she might finally make a friend in a transfer student, who she had approached and asked to work in a group with her. She even let the other girl copy her papers (against her usual ethics) and explained the information on them to be sure that the new girl understood everything being covered, seeming to hit it off quite well with her. Just when she was starting to truly believe that she may finally have the beginnings of a friendship, as she was going to walk out with her, the transferee's demeanor suddenly shifted and she callously commanded, "Get out of here bookworm! Being the new girl here will be hard enough without you weighing me down. I've only been here a single day and can completely understand why everyone else seems to avoid you like a plague. All I wanted was your answers to start off with a good grade but you just kept nattering on about stuff I couldn't care less about! Never to talk to me again, you bushy-haired, ugly, beaver-faced freak." After reliving that school day that had ended with her tears once more staining her pillow, to hear of the opportunity to go away where no one knew of her as the undesirable bookworm and she would fit in better than perhaps anywhere else seemed too good to be true. She could only wait with boundless anticipation for this Deputy Headmistress McGonagall.

In the garden of Number 4 Privet Drive, Harry was frenetically attempting to excise a set of thorny weeds that he had somehow missed in his weeding the day before, having wasted so much time considering the exciting letter he had received that he had to work double time in order to get the garden ready for Aunt Petunia's weekly meticulous inspection. His hands were aching in pain because they refused to allow him the 'luxury' of gloves, meaning that he had to improvise with grass and leaves to attempt to create some sort of barrier to prevent the thorny weeds he had to handle from damaging his skin too badly. Having memorized where the major nerve clusters in the hands were, he was always particularly punctilious in ensuring that the thorns would never damage them, meaning that the acquired wounds would always be relatively easy to heal since he wouldn't have to worry about nerve damage.

As he was preparing to return back into the house to clean up before preparing their lunch (always served at 2:05 PM, which Vernon had heard was the most normal time to eat the meal), Harry heard a quiet popping noise from the front of the house. He went to investigate and found, much to his surprise, a stern, somewhat elderly woman bedecked in formal accoutrements who he was sure had not been there but a few moments before. Before he could ask who she was, his mind not reasoning that there was a chance of the important Deputy Headmistress coming to his residence so promptly just to talk to who may be little more than a servant, his unspoken questions were answered.

The elderly woman smiled slightly and said, "Hello Mr. Potter, I am Deputy Headmistress McGonagall and, if I do say so, it is pleasant to meet you again. The last time I saw you was right around here, just a few hours after that horrid night. Your parents always were some of my favorite students you know. Your mother was an absolute genius in transfiguration and your father a prodigy in charms."

The ramifications of this single, seemingly innocuous statement, quite literally shocked young Harry to his core. His analytical mind instantly considering everything this implied, he began eagerly asking question to confirm his deductions with the typical impetuous curiosity of a youth. "You knew my parents? They were magic users as well? They were good students?! Ever since Aunt Petunia said that they died drunkenly and irresponsibly in a car wreck I've always simply assumed that they were poor students… I know enough rudimentary behavioral studies to know that, generally, actions later in life mirror the type of conduct exhibited in the earlier years of life-"

Harry's queries were interrupted by a series of outraged questions from the visibly irate professor. "Potter", she began, "What is the meaning of these questions! Your parents were some of the brightest of their age, some of the best students I've ever been privileged to know! They were killed by Voldemort after the crossed him too many times, only to execute an ancient ritual that saved your life from the killing curse! Surely, if nothing else, your aunt and uncle have told you THAT much!"

Worried by her tone that was already somehow more forcefully accusatory than any he had ever heard from the jowls of Vernon Dursley, he began to fear a beating and practically fell over himself to make amends for whatever he had done to offend the woman. Stumbling over his words in nervousness, Harry began saying, "I'm s-s-sorry ma'am that I don't know what I need to! I know very little about my life; only that my name is Harry Potter, I love to learn, and… and… the rest is unimportant". Harry was strangely comforted by her next words. Though much quieter, they seemed to possess a sort of fury that had been missing in her previous statement, a rage that he sensed was directed at his aunt and uncle instead of his ignorance, perhaps even as a result of it.

"From your words, Mr. Potter, I surmise that your family haven't told you anything at all about the night your parents died?

"N-n-no, ma'am, they haven't…"

"Completely distrusting of any magic, they fed you some sort of demeaning trollop about your parent's deaths I'm sure." She looked as though she had a horrid thought, then, in a sharp tone that demanded truthfulness, the woman asked, "Have they ever harmed you physically?"

Harry was confused because, even though he had barely known the woman for five minutes, he felt instinctively that she could be trusted. Despite this though, she hadn't done anything to prove herself much different than any other adult he had ever met, so he was not overly forthcoming in what he told her, merely repeating what he had said to Mr. Norton in their previous encounter. "My family… Especially my uncle Vernon… they… they have beaten me before… they make me do all sorts of chores around the house that they don't want, which is all of them…"

With a face that expressed horror, pity, sorrow, and rage, Minerva took the time to truly look at the boy. She could see a slump in his shoulders that showed the toll these beatings of which he had spoken took on him, the frown that should have been the exuberant smile of youth, and his eyes, etched with a sort of weariness she had never seen in an eleven year in all her long years of teaching. Yet, in those same eyes, she could see an impressive intelligence accompanied by a drive to succeed and to prove that he was more than a servant, even if he himself was unable to recognize it. Her brief survey then went to his hands, leading her to give a slight gasp of horror as she saw how mangled they were. In an almost apprehensive, pitying tone, one that no student of Hogwarts would have recognized as belonging to their stern transfiguration professor, she asked, "The injuries on your hands… Are they typical in comparison to what you normally experience?"

Harry had to consider his next words very carefully, knowing that they had the opportunity to change his life. He had to weigh the possibility that he would open up to this lady only to be made fun of or beaten even more (he could not rationalize any reason she would, but knew from his dealings with his family that a reason was not always necessary for a beating) against the chance that she really was not lying and had really come from a school of magic to take him away from his abusive relatives forever. What finally decided his choice to reveal anything she wished to know was the realization that escaping his personal hellhole was worth almost anything and that, short of dying, anything was better than the mistreatment he had hitherto suffered. His gamble made, he responded with more confidence than before, "I would not describe these as typical Deputy Headmistress McGonagall. In fact, these wounds pale in comparison to many that I have received. These are simply because the Dursleys consider gloves to be too much of a luxury for me to have when working. In comparison to having my back torn open by Uncle Vernon's belt, these are nothing. Don't just take my words for it though. See the wounds yourself." At that, he spun about and lifted up his shirt for her to see his wounds in all their awful glory.

The sight of the crisscrossed scars that ran the length of the young boy's back, at least two of which appeared to be recent and in the beginning stages of infection, filled her with revulsion at the thought of the sort of people that could do this. While her day of observation those years ago gave her some idea of the sort of people these particular Muggles were, she had never expected them, nor anyone short of a Death Eater, to be capable of inflicting such grievous injuries as she had just seen. Unable to bear the sight of the wounds, she directed him to cover them back up and, at that moment, swore to herself that she would make the Dursleys pay for how they treated this boy. At the moment though, she knew she had to get her emotions back to their typical level of control and that she had to get Harry away from the foul entities that she felt were undeserving of even being called people. She did not trust herself, at the current level of hatred she held for the family, not to simply barge in and kill them all. The only option this left her was to get the boy away and perhaps put him up at a room at the Lucky Cauldron, one of England's most frequented magical taverns. She couldn't stand to be around the house that had held so much misery for Harry and asked him if he knew any other place where they could sit and talk for a while, so that she could explain her plans for him, the history he should have been told so many years ago, and the plans she had for him to get away from the veritable house of horrors that was Number 4 Privet Drive. He suggested, not knowing anywhere else that could work, the playground of his school. After casting a quick healing charm on his hands and enjoying the look of amazement that came across his face at this relatively simple bit of magic, they embarked. As they went, Minerva began to tell him about Hogwarts and the things he could do there, surprising him when she said he would be a student there. She told him all of the courses that were offered and was somewhat astonished at the exuberance he displayed whenever she described the classes offered, the house point system, and Quidditch. As they finally arrived at the playground after an almost 45 minute walk, the grey-haired teacher had an idea. Having struck up a quick rapport with the lad, she simply asked

"Harry? Would you like to try your first spell?"

The clear gleam in his eye at the prospect of already learning some magic amply demonstrated that this was a good question to ask before beginning the sad tale of his parent's deaths. She told him, "Our government, the English Ministry of Magic, has made a law that magic users under the age of 17 cannot do magic. They have also declared that magic cannot be used in front of non-magical people. However, since you'll be using my wand to try this, they won't be able to tell you're casting a spell and I'll be sure to cast a Muggle repelling charm". After she cast a _Repello Muggletum _around them, she taught Harry how to move his wand in a 'swish and flick' motion and the words to the levitation charm. She then cautioned, "Harry, this is probably not going to work the first time you try it. You've never cast any magic before and it often takes a few minutes to get it right the first time. You will also be disadvantaged by the fact that this wand did not choose you, as any wand must do, so will not react at all like your wand eventually will. Nevertheless, I am most curious to see how quickly you can master this. Please, do not be discouraged if this fails the first the time you try it. With that in mind, I can only wish you luck on casting your first charm!"

Not knowing how powerful the charm might be or what else to cast it at, he aimed the professor's wand at the tire swing just in front of him and focused on how much he wanted to prove to the lady he now genuinely liked that he wasn't merely a worthless abused kid and that she wasn't wasting her time on him. With an intense look of focus etched across his face, he made the appropriate motion and forcefully intoned, "Wingardium Leviosa!" In response, not just the tire, but the entire structure levitated almost an entire meter in the air!

To say that Minerva McGonagall was surprised by this display would be a distinct understatement. This boy, using a wand that wasn't his and hadn't chosen him, had managed to levitate an entire tire swing far higher than any first year should have been able to do, and on his first attempt! After a couple of moments of shocked silence, she noticed that he had continued to levitate the structure in what should have been an intense strain on his young magical core. By all appearances, however, he was perfectly fine. After another few moments to compose herself, she directed him to put it down and said, "That was one of the most impressive things I've witnessed in quite a few years. That wand should be, at best, focusing your power at about half the amount your personal wand will once we get it yet you levitate a structure that must easily weigh 50 stone! In class, we start with a feather! Anyone who can levitate their feather up and down within the first 10 minutes of class is generally considered rather impressive. You just, as they say, blew that mark out of the water. Would you like to try an elementary transfiguration spell?" Before he could respond, she realized that she should likely give him an idea of what he would be doing and what exactly transfiguration was. She gave a brief description and then told him the words for a simple needle to match transfiguration.

His response was rather intriguing to the woman who thought she had fielded just about every first-year transfiguration question. He asked, "Does the field of transfiguration have any connection to the science concept of atomic theory?"

She responded, "I'm not quite sure what you're asking lad. The last time I studied any sort of Muggle science was almost 50 years ago, so I'm not abreast on any recent developments. Transfiguration is generally considered the most science-based field of magic however."

"Well, I have a hypothesis that should render transfiguration quite easy if I'm correct, much simpler than what you've described. You told me that, at its most basic, magic serves as a conduit by which we can impose our will on the world…" Now muttering more to himself than talking, he continued, "So then, it only stands to reason that if I will that the individual protons, neutrons, and electrons in some object reconfigure themselves to the configuration of another object or substance, magic will be able to do what my mind is unable and actually affect the individual atoms. My knowledge of chemistry says that this should require little to no energy on my part since the amount of bonds being broken and created should be roughly equivalent…Actually, this could probably be done using just the air around me, since its filled with particles… Hmm… I'll try to turn a bit of air into a teacup!"

Minerva considered his words and was about to caution against him trying it, thinking it likely that he would fail since it sounded like the rather difficult topic of conjuration from what she could understand and she did not want a failure to damage the psyche of the young man. However, she simply didn't have the heart to try to deter him in something that was clearly fascinating to him and that allowed him to harness his natural intelligence and curiosity. Besides, his words made sense once she thought about them and she was quite curious to see if he could do it, especially since what he described was essentially wandless magic, a skill even she had yet to master.

Relinquishing her wand and gazing intently at a portion of the air around him, he envisioned the gases in the air, then the constituent atoms gaining and losing protons and electrons and eventually reconstituting themselves into an ornate Elizabethan era teacup he had seen a picture of in his history textbook at school. To his surprise, he felt a rather significant drain in his energy levels, but held a teacup in his hand exactly like the one he had envisioned.

At this point, Minerva McGonagall was so shocked by everything she had seen that a complete novice performing fifth-year work wandlessly was just icing on the figurative cake. She had literally just seen something, come up with in just a few minutes of thought, that would probably revolutionize the entire field of transfiguration. Chuckling softly to herself, she then stated, "Well, it seems you have once again managed to defy my wildest expectations and probably just revolutionized an entire field of magic at the age of eleven."

She was heartened to hear him quip back, "Well, I do my best to impress. Maybe tomorrow we can revolutionize potions? It sounded interesting earlier" It was a mild joke, but she found it amazing that after such a past as his that he could joke at all. She responded, "Now, it's getting late and I have to get you to bed so we can see what various laws of magic we can break tomorrow. I'll also tell you about your parents, then we can meet some of the other first years and take you all to Diagon Alley to get your textbooks."

She expected a look of excitement on his face, everything she had seen indicating that he would be thrilled to have the compilations of magical knowlede. Instead, he wore the same the guarded expression that had faded over the time they had spent together. She was confused until she heard him ask, "You're sending me back to the Dursleys then?" She realized that though they had built a rapport, he would of course have deep trust issues that would take time to overcome. Quickly, she assured him that she meant to take him to a wizarding inn where she knew the owner would keep him safe till they could reconnoiter in the morning. He instantly brightened back up to the happier version she had coaxed out of him. That decided, McGonagall apparated them both to the Lucky Cauldron and told the barman, Tom, to make sure that the boy with her that she didn't identify had a good room and was safe until she could make it back the next day. After she had taken him up to his room and was getting ready to leave to figure out what to tell Albus about the tumultuous events of the day, she heard him speak in a quiet, almost vulnerable voice from the bed, "Ms. McGonagall, earlier in the day, you mentioned that you knew my parents, and it sounds like you know how they died… I've been trying to figure out how to ask you all day… I want to know the truth behind their death…"

Minerva could think of no way to avoid answering his questions, nor did she particularly want to.

Her choice thus decided for her, she invited him to sit down with her the bed and she proceeded to relate every portion of the sad tale that she knew. Over the course of the next few hours, she gave him a description of the horror of the dark wizard Voldemort's reign of terror, the paramilitary Order of the Phoenix, the strength of Albus Dumbledore, of the concept of a Fidelius charm, what she knew of his parent's decision to make their former friend Sirius Black their secret keeper and how he decided to betray them to the evil wizard, how he had invaded their home on a dark Samhain and ended the lives of two of the best people she had ever met. She finished by telling him of the Avada Kedavra he had somehow survived and then offered her best explanation for how he had managed to survive a guaranteed death, then told him of the fame that awaited him as the 'Vanquisher of Voldemort'. She explained, "Harry, what I am about to tell you is moderately advanced magical theory, but from what I've seen so far, you'll be able to understand the gist of what I mean to say. Those who have attempted to study the killing curse have postulated that the curse severs the connection between the immaterial component of life that animates the body- let's term it the soul- and the actual biological components that constitute physical existence. They have very little clue as to exactly how the curse goes about this, but the means are not nearly as important as the end result of severing a soul. I conjecture that, through some means I know not of, perhaps some of the more ancient rituals, your mother managed to voluntarily sever almost her entire soul from her body and, in an almost sort of possession, bind it to take precedence in your youthful body. Thus, when the killing curse hit and detached a soul, it naturally went for the dominant one, leaving your own soul and body bonded together like normal. The part of her soul that had to remain in her body for her to be able to live long enough to distract Voldemort was what would have protected you from the complete power of the curse, instead letting in just enough magic to cause that scar on your forehead." By the end of her tragic tale, Harry looked to be so sad that, though it was probably a gross violation of some obscure student/teacher rule, she pulled the young boy into the first hug he had ever knowingly received and realized that her role in the young man's life would transcend just that of a professor and become more of an almost grandmotherly presence. After sitting and letting him cry away the emotions of the day before he drifted off to sleep, she tucked him in under the blankets and erected a privacy ward before disapparating back to the place she lived in during the summer months, wondering how tomorrow's customary visits to the new children would go and how to relate everything that happened today to the Headmaster of Hogwarts on the morrow.


End file.
